I spent years of my life as a perfectionist; blame my parents and my upbringing if you like.. or blame my internalised shame that meant I never felt good enough.
Or don’t blame anything and accept it for what it is.
The long and short is that the past doesn’t matter, and what I do now is the important part.
And that is to stop holding myself and others to impossible standards.
That doesn’t mean settling for shoddyness. It doesn’t mean doing a half-cocked job of everything.
When you have a perfectionist streak, your version of “barely ok” is usually far better than most people’s idea of “good”.
But when you let go of that perfection—of that compulsion to be more than you already are—you also let go of the suffering that you’ve carried for years and years.
And you do what you can, with what you have.
And it’s perfectly good enough.